


Lead On

by fieryphrazes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 18:27:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13487199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fieryphrazes/pseuds/fieryphrazes
Summary: When John goes through a traumatic event, Sherlock is just a bit too attentive. Cue some confusion and a confession and then, eventually, a sweet ending.





	Lead On

All John could process was the pounding in his ears. Then, a faster beat, physical – someone shaking him. A tight grip on his arms, a rhythmic jerk back and forth. Then, a low chant – was that his name? Was someone calling his name? Sure enough it was _Johnjohnjohnjohn_.

Then a gasping breath, like coming up for air after being dragged under by a wave – _Cornwall, holiday with Gran, first grade_ , John’s brain supplied – and suddenly he was aware that he was hyperventilating.

Hyperventilating, with Sherlock still shaking him, still calling his name in an urgent, low voice. John’s eyes came into focus – trained on his own hands, shaking, trembling. Blood on his palms.

He looked up at Sherlock. “Where am I?” he asked. Sherlock only pulled him close, wrapping long arms around him, and squeezed.

 

John sat numbly on the curb, eyes out of focus. In the corner of his mind, he could hear Sherlock arguing with Greg.

“Absolutely not! He’s in shock, he’s traumatized. I’m taking him home,” Sherlock seemed adamant. “You can come in the morning to interrogate him, if you must.”

John couldn’t quite make out Greg’s response, distant as he was, but the tone seemed apologetic, but firm.

“Screw the bloody regulations!” Sherlock shouted. There was a dull roar as several people chimed in. Somehow, Sherlock was the only thing piercing through and grabbing John’s attention. John felt his eyes slipping closed.

The next thing he knew, a gentle hand on his neck woke him. John looked up at Sherlock, concerned and surreptitiously checking his pulse. His smile must have come out a bit loopy, because Sherlock only looked more concerned afterward. He pulled John up and led him toward a car.

“Squad car? Don’t you want to take a cab?” John asked. Sherlock winced – was he slurring his speech?

“Not willing to wait,” Sherlock explained as he guided John into the back seat of the police car. “You’ve had a nasty concussion, along with some significant emotional trauma,” Sherlock explained.

John furrowed his brow. Concussion? Trauma? That could explain the feeling that he’d pulled a Rip van Winkle, woken up after a hundred or so years, dizzy because the world kept spinning without him.

“Sherlock…” John was nervous to even ask. “What happened to me?”

Sherlock inspected John closely. He opened his mouth once, then closed it; he pursed his lips in thought; then he asked John: “What can you deduce?”

John thought carefully, stacking up the pieces of his memory, trying to form a narrative.

“We had a fight,” John looked up at Sherlock to confirm. A glower told John he was right. “We fought, then I went for a walk to cool down.” Sherlock nodded.

“There was –“ a stabbing sensation in John’s temple. He took a deep breath and braced himself against the pain. “There was a homeless man, in the park.”

Sherlock stayed silent, the incline of his head encouraging John to go on.

“Did he… I mean, is he…” John was afraid to finish the question. 

“You did everything you could, John,” he said somberly. John’s eyes welled with tears.

“They just attacked him,” the senselessness of it broke John’s heart. “I’m a doctor, and a soldier. I should have been able to stop them –“ Sherlock cut him off.

“There were a dozen of them! And it was clearly a targeted attack. He’ll survive, but the damage is… serious.” Sherlock’s voice turned fierce and low. “Listen to me: _you did everything you could_.”

John nodded slowly and pressed his face into Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing him in.

_He’s the only thing that makes sense_ , John thought. _The only thing I can trust_.

 

Sherlock used a washcloth dipped in warm water to wash the last traces of blood off John’s forehead. Then he pulled the sweater over John’s head, ushered him into their bedroom, and wrapped a quilt around him. 

“Sherlock, I’ll burn up,” John complained without any heat. A careful, caring Sherlock was a novelty. _Or a sign of how much danger I was in tonight_ , John thought.

Sherlock hummed a disagreement and buried his head in John’s neck. It was the last thing John was aware of until a few hours later, when a sleepy Sherlock shook him awake.

“John,” he mumbled. “John. John!” Sherlock was practically shouting by the end.

“Jesus, Sherlock! It’s….” John glared over at the clock beside the bed. “It’s two in the bloody morning!”

“Head injury…” Sherlock trailed off and promptly started to snore. John had two more unpleasant wake-up calls through the night, Sherlock interrupting his sleep to ask a trivia question, or to press a quick, soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

 

The night after, Sherlock didn’t have to shake John awake. The nightmares did that well enough.

 

It was nearly a week later that John finally got up at a decent hour and decided to make a full-on breakfast. He’d cracked the eggs into a bowl, about to whip them, while the bacon crackled. Sherlock’s phone chimed. There was a flutter of newsprint as Sherlock tossed down the paper and answered.

John hummed to himself, scrambling the eggs with a fork. Sherlock rambled into the kitchen and laid his hands on John’s hips, dropping a kiss on the back of his shoulder.

“Case?” John asked. Sherlock just pushed his nose up John’s neck to his hairline and sighed. John set down the bowl of eggs and turned around in Sherlock’s arms.

“Are you meeting Lestrade?” John pressed. Sherlock shook his head.

“No case. Just breakfast,” Sherlock stole a kiss, “and then a walk through the park. Or maybe a trip to the National Gallery,” he mused. “Which would you prefer? There’s also the Natural History Museum, of course, but we did go last month…”

John smiled and turned to take the bacon off the heat. On the kitchen table, his phone buzzed twice in quick succession. John extricated himself and found two text messages from Greg.

_Can you talk Sherlock into taking this one. Must be an 8._

_He’s turned everything down for a week. We’re really stumped, mate._

John shot a quick look at Sherlock, who was leaning against the counter, looking just a bit too relaxed.

“Sounds like there is a case, after all,” John said. “Lestrade says he needs you.”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “An 8 for them is a 4 for me.”

John walked back to the counter and dumped the eggs into the frying pan, still full of bacon grease.

“You should go,” he said. Sherlock shook his head.

“We’re going to the museum,” Sherlock said. “That’s what we’re doing today.”

Suddenly, John understood – and anger heated his chest.

“You don’t have to take care of me!” John slammed his hands down on the counter. Sherlock paused, head tilted in confusion.

“I don’t have to do anything,” Sherlock said slowly. “I want to, though.” John gritted his teeth and tried to focus on the eggs cooking on the stovetop.

“You hate obligations,” he said, shaking his head. Sherlock looked at John like he was particularly thick.

“But I love you,” he said, as though explaining something very obvious.

John dropped the spatula.

“You _what_?” he hissed. “Bloody terrible time to tell me, Sherlock!” That earned a blank look. 

“How could you not know?” Sherlock seemed genuinely bewildered.

John flipped off the stove and made his way toward the stairs.

“I’m going back to sleep,” he said. “In my _own_ bed!”

 

He’d been tossing and turning for half an hour when he finally heard footsteps on the stairs. He strained to hear every footfall. Finally, a slow creak as Sherlock pushed the bedroom door open.

“I’m not going to apologize,” Sherlock said quietly. John huffed.

“No. No, you don’t need to,” he sighed. “I do, though. I’m sorry. And I love you too.”

The bed dipped as Sherlock perched on the edge.

“It’s important that you know you’re not an obligation,” he explained. “That I’m taking care of you because I want to, and that I don’t mind.” Sherlock sneaked a side glance at John, who smiled.

“You don’t do anything you don’t want to do,” John acknowledged with a smile. But it faded quickly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You went through a trauma. Just a week ago. Natural that you’re still recovering,” he said plainly.

John just circled Sherlock’s wrist and pulled him down to lie on the bed.

They stayed there for a spell, nose to nose, occasionally whispering _I love you_ and _I love you too_ and _You really didn’t know?_

When they were finally ready to start the day over again, John re-made the bed and went downstairs to throw out the eggs, left half-cooked in the pan for hours now.

Sherlock cleared his throat and held out John’s coat.

“National Gallery, or Natural History?” Sherlock asked.

“Your choice,” John said with a smile. “Lead on.”


End file.
